by David Hanlon Jan Canty Unravelling does its dirty work again, and I ossify into a walnut shell, a slab of marble, cubic boron nitride, shout at the wrong things, how they left us: foals wading through crocodile-infested rivers, our insides deluged with shunned tears. Once, a boyfriend took my hands & moisturised them & it felt like being touched for the first time, it felt maternal. Now, I macerate into soft putty, life rolling me between its thumb & forefinger, my form ma